Sneak peak at Chapter One of SON OF THE THUNDER GODDESS
Hi everyone,
I hope you’re all having a great start to the new year!
As we count down to the release of Son of the Thunder Goddess on March 5, I’m excited to share with you all this sneak peak at Chapter One. Step into the realm of Logren, into an epic, immersive world of gods, battles, and revenge.
Happy reading!
Chapter One
Death hovered in the air. It lingered in the haunted eyes of the refugees, clinging to their muddy heels as they stumbled down the dirt road.
At the head of this ragged band, Athewain slowed to look back at the carnage. Trails of smoke stained a reddening sky, and ravens winged towards the burning country, seeking a feast of flesh. He picked up his pace, pushing past the ache in his feet. They had little time. The army behind them halted only to kill and plunder. Soon the warriors would hurry on, their hounds and horsemen seeking easy prey.
Bridunum loomed before them, a mighty city, encircled by a high earthen mound and an imposing wall of sharpened stakes. A horn sounded from within the fortress as they neared the northern gate.
The gates slowly groaned open, and Athewain turned to his brother, Nennian, walking on his right. He saw that fear gripped him like a hunted beast. The spirit of Uamhan was among them all, the serpent coiled around the hearts of every one of these harried villagers, his fangs bared, ready to spread his mortal poison. Athewain could feel the god’s coils around his own heart.
He turned from his brother and gazed again upon the city. A dozen riders issued forth from the gate, their long spears held high, the bronze of their helms and shields catching the fading light.
“Stay,” Athewain said to those who followed, holding up his hand.
They needed no command. The sight of the soldiers was enough to still them.
The foremost of the horsemen came to a halt before Athewain. “Hail,” he said, his spear held low in challenge. “What is your purpose on the king’s road? Bridunum is closed to trade.” His eyes roamed over Athewain and Nennian, narrowing as he took in their simple peasant clothes, a stark contrast to their expensive weapons.
“I am Athewain of Nanbych. This is Nennian, my brother. And these are villagers of Pethlug. We seek King Meardan’s protection. Saorlach’s warband is coming.”
Silence fell over the mounted soldiers. Both Nanbych and Pethlug were villages under Bridunum’s dominion.
“Saorlach?” their captain said with a frown. “We have seen the fires. But how do you know it is he?”
It was Nennian who replied. “I have seen the banners of King Clubhar. A hundred chariots ride beneath that standard, with well on a thousand spearmen marching after.”
“Bodtha’s breath,” the captain cursed. “It cannot be…” For some moments, he was silent.
“Captain,” said Athewain. He gestured to those behind him. “These people are exhausted. Please let us in.”
“Aye,” the captain said, shaking himself. He turned to one of the mounted warriors. “Ride to the hall. Alert the king. Rest of you, inside. And you…” He turned to Athewain and Nennian. “Best you come with me. The king will want to hear this from you directly.”
§
The king’s hall was lively, smelling of smoke and sizzling meat, of wine and ale and fresh-baked bread. Noble men and women filled the room, seated on benches along a semicircular table, adorned in fine tunics and gowns of rich fabrics in a variety of hues. Before the table, at the center of the hall, servants turned spitted pigs over the roaring hearth.
At the table’s center, on a high-backed chair of dark wood, sat Meardan, king of Bridunum, wearing a golden circlet. Even seated, he was stooped with age, his face a mesh of lines and creases, his grey beard long and drooping. His queen, Rhian, sat on his right, younger by perhaps a dozen years, her eyes sparkling with merriment.
Athewain and Nennian stopped at the threshold as the captain went in to announce them. He came before the throne and bowed.
“My king.”
The hall grew silent as the revelers slowly took notice of the old soldier’s intrusion.
Meardan leaned forward in his throne. “What is it, Ylian?”
Ylian straightened and gestured behind him. “These shepherds bring evil tidings. Saorlach has come. And Pethlug burns.”
The hall echoed with angry hisses. Athewain felt all eyes upon them. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow.
“Come forward,” the king demanded.
They went slowly, coming to stand by Ylian. Athewain saw Nennian bow and quickly followed his example.
“Who are you?” Meardan boomed.
“Athewain.” He stared down at the earthen floor strewn with rushes. “I am a shepherd of Nanbych. And this is Nennian, my brother.”
From the corner of his eye, Athewain saw King Meardan wave his hand impatiently. “Rise, shepherds. Tell me exactly what you have seen.”
Athewain rose, struggling to keep his composure. “It was my brother who saw the army.”
Nennian gulped, clearing his throat. “I saw… I saw the warband marching north on the road near Pethlug. A thousand men or more. Centiros’s snarling wolf flew on their banners. And Saorlach himself drove his chariot before them.”
“Blood of Gallos!” the king cursed. “During the Feast of Helfar? Have they no honor?”
“Saorlach has never shown respect for the gods, my king,” Ylian said. “He is Gaillag’s son, after all.”
A young man seated at the king’s side leapt to his feet. He was tall and broad of shoulder, his face red from drinking, matching the crimson of his finespun tunic. “We should have been prepared!” He clenched his fists. “Have I not said that Saorlach would not honor the treaty? That the spears of Centiros would come again? And now they are here, laying waste to field and barn, desecrating Helfar’s peace!”
“Be still, Mathlann,” said the king.
Athewain studied the young man with greater interest, noting his proud eyes, his long black mane and mustache. This, then, was Mathlann, Meardan’s eldest son, heir to the throne of Bridunum.
“I will not be still!” Mathlann cried. His hand crept to the gilded hilt of his scabbarded sword. “Not until Saorlach bleeds for his blasphemy and treachery!”
“And he will, my son,” his father vowed. “He will.” He turned to Athewain and Nennian again. “You have my thanks. Ylian, see they are given meat and ale.”
Ylian bowed his head. But as his hand came to rest on Athewain’s shoulder, the youth shrugged it off.
“My king?” Athewain began, forcing the tremor from his voice. “I request a boon.”
A murmur arose among the noble men and women. Many shot him strange looks. But Meardan held up his hand to still them.
“What would you have, lad?”
Athewain knew he was overstepping. It was acceptable to request a boon of one’s host, and Meardan had already extended his hospitality by offering them food and drink. But the favor he was about to request stretched the limits of all generosity.
Athewain cleared his throat, bracing himself for the monarch’s outrage. “I have heard that before each battle, Saorlach issues a challenge of single combat.” He did not add that these same stories also told of the host of souls the goddess’s son had sent wailing to Ifryn’s halls. Straightening himself, he continued. “I ask that when the army comes before the walls of Bridunum, and Saorlach issues his challenge, you would grant me the honor of fighting him.”
The hall erupted now, no longer murmuring, but shouting.
Prince Mathlann glowered at him and raised his voice to be heard above the tumult. “You forget yourself, shepherd! You think that because you bring us tidings of the enemy, you have earned the right of marked warriors?”
Another man rose stiffly a few seats to the left of the king. He was elderly, with long white hair and a beard to match, dressed in a pale, flowing hooded robe. Athewain knew he must be Segar, chief druid of Bridunum—a man he’d been warned to watch out for.
“I must counsel against rash action, my lords,” the druid said. “Before any warrior here commits himself to challenging Saorlach, might I suggest we listen to what he has to say? What terms he offers?”
“Terms?” Mathlann rounded on the priest. “What terms? He has attacked our villages already! He comes to conquer!”
“We do not know that, lord prince,” Segar said. “And Saorlach is a mighty warrior. We would be wise not to anger him before hearing him out.”
“What of the villages?” Athewain asked.
The druid fixed him with a menacing stare. “What of them, boy?”
“Saorlach slaughters the people. He burns the villages. Does this not show you that he has not come to bandy terms?”
Segar huffed. “You know nothing. The burning of villages is but the prelude to war. A warning, a display of his power. He will be open to negotiation, I am sure.”
“Damn negotiation!” Mathlann spat. “We shall meet him force for force!”
A chorus of shouting followed the prince’s outburst.
“Peace, Mathlann!” the king shouted above the din. He stared at Athewain, running his bony old fingers through his hoary beard. At last, as the shouts and murmurs died away, he spoke. “You say you know of Saorlach’s reputation. Then you know also of his power?”
Athewain nodded, feeling the heat of Segar’s gaze like the blaze of a winter’s fire.
“Do you wish to die, lad?” the king asked, his voice soft, almost pleading.
“No, my king. I wish to take the bastard’s head.”
“Enough!” Mathlann exploded, coming around the table to stand between his father and Athewain. “The right to challenge Saorlach is mine! Father, I request that you allow me to face him, for the honor of our house.”
The king gave Athewain one last appraising glance before turning to Mathlann. “Of course, my son. It is your right.” He turned again to Athewain, who felt himself flush. “I cannot grant you this boon, shepherd.”
Athewain opened his mouth to speak, but Nennian whispered in his ear.
“Don’t say another word. You’ve pushed your luck far enough already.”
Athewain nodded, closing his mouth again.
He felt Ylian’s hand return to his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “This way, lads,” he muttered, leading them from the hall.
§
Ylian set down a platter of cold meat and black bread before them, along with two tankards of ale. As the brothers fell to eating, he looked at them and smiled a little, shaking his head.
“Don’t remember the last time I saw the prince so angry,” he said. “You really thought the king would let you duel Saorlach?”
Athewain shrugged, taking a hearty bite of bread.
“Even if Meardan had agreed,” Ylian continued, “you’d have no chance of beating him.”
“And Mathlann does?” Nennian challenged, arms folded before his chest.
Ylian stiffened, frowning at Nennian. “Prince Mathlann is a fearsome warrior, marked from a score of battles. There is none fiercer with sword or spear. I trained him myself.”
Athewain stopped eating, looked curiously at Ylian. Then he nodded.
“I can’t figure you lads out,” Ylian said. “You say you’re shepherds, yet you carry bronze and iron, speak proudly to princes and priests, and request a favor far above your station.”
“Yes,” Nennian said.
Ylian snorted. “Why do you want to duel Saorlach?”
Athewain took another drink and saw that his hand was shaking. A hot knife twisted in his guts. He looked down at his food, willing himself to be composed.
“Saorlach owes us a debt,” Nennian said. “We’ve come to collect it.”
Ylian frowned. He turned from brother to brother. “I’m afraid you’ll not collect it. Tomorrow, Prince Mathlann will take his head and rout the spears of Centiros.” Then he grinned. “I’ll see that you get a good view, shepherds. That’ll have to serve in place of your rejected boon. I’ll bring you to the ramparts, as close to the gate as I can, so that you may witness the might of Bridunum firsthand.”
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